


Spontaneity

by Northumbrian



Series: Nineteen Years and Beyond [18]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, First Time, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Fluff and Smut, Humor, Post-Hogwarts, Sex, Sexual Content, Sexual Humor, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-20
Updated: 2015-09-18
Packaged: 2018-03-13 23:46:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3400655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Northumbrian/pseuds/Northumbrian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ron, Hermione, Harry and Ginny move into a new phase in their relationship. A four-shot from four perspectives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hermione

**Hermione**

The brakes of the Hogwarts Express make their first tentative squeal and the train begins to slow.

We are approaching King’s Cross Station on this, my penultimate homeward journey. The next time I step onto Platform Nine and Three-quarters from this train will be my last as a student. The NEWT exams will be over, and I will no longer be a schoolgirl. The exams will be _over_ —they are so close!

The Easter holidays will allow me almost two weeks of revision time, because Ron is working again. He works too hard, and he cannot do two jobs forever; especially as one of them is unpaid. He will have to decide between the Auror Office and George. There is no doubt that George needs him more, but Ron has always wanted to be an Auror.

I will see Ron on George’s birthday, because we _must_ be with George _I wish that George would stop referring to his birthday as “George’s First Birthday”_. Ron is working almost every other day. The only other times I will see Ron are tonight, on Easter Day at The Burrow and on Easter Monday.

When I wrote and told Mum about my invitation to The Burrow on Easter Day, she and Dad immediately invited Ron, Harry and Ginny over for a meal with us the following day, Easter Monday. That is _three days_ lost from my revision timetable...not that I mind. After all, I’m seeing Ron! But I’ve had to make some major changes to my homework diary.

Ginny interrupts my thoughts when she hurries into the Prefects’ carriage. She’s wearing high heeled shoes and a short sleeveless dress with a wide leather belt, and she looks gorgeous.

‘Right, you lot,’ she tells the Prefects, ‘Justin, Fenella, you’re in charge. Hermione is going to get changed _right now_. Harry and Ron are meeting us off the train, and the Head Girl is so wrapped up in her responsibilities that she’s still in her school robes.’

Justin, who is looking admiringly at Ginny, nods his acquiescence. He turns to me and smiles.

‘Go on, Hermione, we’re almost at King’s Cross, and there’s not much more to do. I’ll sort this lot out.’ The Head Boy nods at the other Prefects. I’m not so sure; Justin can be rather lax in performing the Head Boy’s duties.

Like me, Justin missed school last year. Like me, he’s one of the few Muggle-borns who came back to take the final year we missed. Now, I’m a seventh year and so is Ginny; I’m also, at nineteen, the oldest pupil in the school.

I don’t have the chance to give Justin any final instructions because Ginny grabs my arm and drags me into the corridor and along to the loo. I don’t resist, because she’s right; I’m meeting Ron and I’m not ready.

‘Get changed, now, Hermione,’ she orders, rolling her eyes in mock-exasperation as she pushes me into the tiny toilet cubicle. The train clanks and groans to a halt before I have finished changing.

Ginny has stopped hammering impatiently on the door. She stopped knocking the moment the train came to a standstill. I heard the carriage door slam open at the same instant. By now, she will be on the platform, snogging Harry.

She must be desperate to see him; after all, it’s been _two whole days_. Thursday night was the last time that Kreacher took her out of Hogwarts to Grimmauld Place, because that was Ron’s last late shift.

I haven’t seen Ron in weeks and weeks, not since Valentine’s Day! Unlike Harry, he couldn’t make it to the Quidditch match last weekend, because he had an Auror exam to re-sit. He missed Ginny’s team winning the Quidditch cup. He was devastated.

I’m dawdling. I’m nervous, why should I be nervous? I’m nervous because I know what Harry and Ginny have been doing for the past week, what Ginny calls their “victory celebrations”, and I know that Ron still doesn’t know. The trouble is, Ron always seems to know when I’m keeping secrets from him, and I’m not certain how he’ll react when he finds out about his sister and his best friend.

Ron and I will have to wait until after I finish school. He’s busy, and I’m busy. We don’t have much time for each other; he has his Auror Office duties, work, training and examinations combined. And when he’s not doing that, he’s helping George at the shop.

I’ve just finished pulling on my sweater when there’s a knock on the toilet door.

‘Auror Office,’ Ron shouts. ‘Open the door, or I’ll blast it open.’

Ron is as impatient as ever; he’s as desperate to see me as I am to see him. Smiling, I open the door; he puts on his fake frown.

‘Harry and Ginny’ve been lip-clamped out there for at least fifteen minutes; Hermione, you’re wasting valuable snogging time,’ he says.

Fifteen minutes is a ridiculous exaggeration, and I’m about to tell him so, but he looks at me with that appraising “I think you’re gorgeous” look of his. I swear that he looks right into my heart. It makes me blush.

I open my mouth to scold him, but he grabs me around the waist, lifts me off my feet and kisses me. I’m sandwiched uncomfortably between him and the sink, almost sitting in the tiny bowl. Why couldn’t he have waited until I got off the train? Because he wanted to kiss me _now_ , his fervour tells me that; I respond enthusiastically.

Eventually, he drops me and we look at each other and smile. This is stupid; we’re both uncertain for no reason other than the anticipation of this meeting.

He’s appraising me again. He actually seems to think I’m attractive.

Then I finally realise that he really _does_ think that I’m attractive. It’s Ron! I’ve known him since we were eleven, and I know that with Ron, what you see is what you get.

He is a terrible liar, and brutally honest. When he says, “I like your hair,” he really means “I like your hair,” he’s not simply being polite. The opposite is true, too. If, for example, you’re tired and overworked because of the Time-Turner you’ve been using, he’ll say, “You look bloody awful.” and he’ll want to know why.

He looks at me the way he does because he really, truly, likes what he sees. Why am I surprised? Why has it taken me so long to realise?

I appraise him, too. He’s tall and, although he’s not exactly handsome, he’s really quite striking-looking. He’s easy to spot in a crowd, too, just look for the red hair sticking above everybody else. He’s tough and funny and brave. He makes me laugh, and he makes me feel safe.

He’s also hopeless and clumsy and fidgety and untidy. Except today, he isn’t untidy. His trousers are the right length, not flapping halfway up his calves; his sweater is new and green, and he’s wearing a new tweed jacket. By Ron’s standards, he really looks quite smart.

‘When you’ve finished admiring your handsome boyfriend, he’d like to take you out for a meal,’ Ron says. He steps down from the train, turns and lifts me onto the platform.

‘I wasn’t admiring you.’ I deny it, why?

‘You were.’

‘I was _not_ ,’ I protest. His smile broadens, he’s enjoying himself; he loves childish was-wasn’t arguments. I smile too; stupid banter with Ron always makes me smile.

‘When you two have finished baiting each other, we can go,’ calls Harry.

‘We’re not baiting each other,’ Ron and I speak simultaneously. Harry gives us a knowing smile, shrugs and takes Ginny’s hand. Ron and I hug, and grin, then he takes my hand and we walk through the barrier on to the Muggle station and down into the Underground. We’re going out to a Muggle restaurant.

We take the Piccadilly line to Piccadilly Circus, and Ron and Harry take us to an Italian Restaurant called Antonio’s. We’ve all been here before; we went soon after the Battle. But it looks like Ron and Harry are regulars from the way the waiter greets them.

‘So, these are the “belle ragazze” you boast about?’ he asks Harry and Ron as he escorts us to our table.

The waiter is kind, complimentary, and attentive, and the meal is delicious.

We catch up with the news over the meal. Harry and Ron are trying to introduce new equipment into the Auror Office while working on a new security system for the Ministry. That’s in addition to working and studying and, in Ron’s case, helping out at Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes.

‘You’re trying to do too much,’ I tell Ron as the waiter clears the table.

‘Not like you, of course; you never work too hard,’ he says with a teasing smile. ‘Let me see that homework diary of yours.’ He snatches it from my bag and opens it.

‘At least twelve hours of revision and homework, every day,’ he announces. ‘And you accuse _me_ of working too hard.’

‘Give that back, now,’ I order, and he hands it over with a smile.

‘I’ve just had to re-timetable everything _again_ because you’re all coming to my place on Easter Monday. I hope that you’re not going to cancel, I have my revision carefully planned.’

Ron laughs, leans over, and kisses my cheek.

* * *

At midnight, we are finishing our coffees at Grimmauld Place, we’ve laughed and joked and gossiped and it’s time for Ginny and I to leave. I know that Ginny would rather stay, but Molly would explode if she did, and anyway Harry is at work very early tomorrow morning.

I would like to stay too, not that Ron has suggested it. What would I do if he did make that suggestion? It is the next step in our relationship; it’s inevitable, I think. What would he do if I asked him? Would he think that I’m a “scarlet woman”? I smile to myself at the thought and Ron spots the smile.

‘What’re you so happy about? Looking forward to all that revision?’ he asks.

‘I was … just remembering Valentine’s Day.’ I lie. He smiles; Valentine’s Day was a good day. The perfume he’d bought me was actually very nice, because he’d asked both Ginny and my Mum for advice. Not like the first bottle he bought me. I called it unusual at the time, but “vile” would have been a better word. At least he tried, I remind myself.

He’s learning and he’s grown up such a lot in the last year. We all have.

Mum and Dad are expecting me home soon, and Ginny’s parents are expecting her, too. So, at the front door of number twelve Grimmauld Place, we kiss our boyfriends goodnight.

‘I’ll see you on George’s birthday,’ I tell Ron.

‘Goodnight, Harry, I’ll see you tomorrow,’ Ginny says. I’m jealous, Harry has the afternoon off tomorrow, but Ron doesn’t.

We each Apparate home from the front step, where no Muggle can see us. As I twist, I see Ron wink at Harry. He’s up to something.

Mum and Dad are waiting up for me, full of questions about school, and where I’ve been with Ron tonight. I tell them about our evening out in Soho and my revision plans.

‘You need to go out more, Hermione. You should be spending some time with Ron. You can’t spend every day revising,’ Mum tells me.

Ron and Harry have visited my parents a few times while I’m at school, but I never expected Mum to say something like _that_. I accuse her of listening to Ron, and she admits that she has been.

‘They’re my NEWT’s, Mum; they’re the most important exams I’ll ever take,’ I remind her. ‘Besides, Ron can’t get any more time off.’

* * *

At ten o’clock the following morning, my alarm clock rings. I turn it off, get up, and go to the bathroom.

I decide to check my homework diary before I get dressed and go downstairs for my breakfast. I have scheduled myself two hours for Potions revision this morning, half an hour break for lunch and then six hours for Arithmancy this afternoon. This evening, Ginny is coming over and we’re doing Professor Rafferty’s Transfiguration homework.

I look at my diary for confirmation:

_10:30 – Day out with Ron. Going to have a great time and returning late, very late._

I close my eyes, open them again and reread the page; it still says the same thing, written in Ron’s untidy scrawl. I check the next page. What I thought I was doing today is now scheduled for tomorrow. I clench my teeth in frustration: Ron has done something to my diary. That’s why he didn’t seem bothered when I told him that I wasn’t going to see him for a few days. That’s what last night’s wink meant. Does he really think that I’ll fall for this idiotic trick? He told me he could not get the day off, so why would he do something like this? Perhaps it’s George’s idea of a joke.

After almost fifteen minutes, I have been unable to undo the alterations to my homework diary. How did he do it? Nothing I’ve done can return the diary to its original version. I am beginning to wonder if it’s some form of Protean Charm, which I know is something Ron still struggles with. I’m about to test that theory when the doorbell rings. I hear Dad’s voice, and Ron’s.

I check my clock. It’s exactly half past ten. I panic—he’s come to take me out for the day and I’m not ready for him.

I almost scream at myself; this is what Ron does to me all the time. He distracts me and confuses me! I’m not ready for him because I’m not _supposed_ to be ready for him. I’m _supposed_ to be working! Had he told me, I’d be ready. But he didn’t!

Then I realise that he did tell me, in his own way; he altered my diary as a surprise, not a joke, and he’s here!

I hear his big feet clomping up the stairs. Dad has let him come up to my room. I’m not dressed. I’m wearing nothing but knickers and a vest. Worse, it’s an old vest of Ron’s which I found when I emptied my beaded bag, and it is much too big for me.

I look down, I’m showing a lot of chest and I’m obviously bra-less. My dressing gown is hanging on the door. I look at the dressing gown, and then at my unmade bed. I can’t decide which way to jump for cover. I decide on the dressing gown, but Ron reaches the door before I do and he walks straight in without knocking.

I freeze mid-stride, and he does too. His jaw drops, and his chin almost hits his chest. His mouth is hanging open, and he would easily beat Luna in a wide-eyed-and-crazy-staring contest. Then he blushes.

His blushes are amazing, even his ears go red, it’s so sweet.

‘Why don’t you knock?’ I ask.

‘Sorry, your Dad said that he heard you go to the loo half an hour ago. He told me that you were up and swotting. And besides, you have never, ever, knocked on my bedroom door,’ he says. His blush is still there, and he’s staring at my chest.

I look down, a tiny crescent of areola is visible, and he’s seen it.

‘I was standing right here the first time that I told you that I love you. The first time I really, properly, told you,’ he says.

How does his brain work? It certainly isn’t logical; it sometimes jumps from one topic to another faster than I can keep up.

He steps forwards and puts his left hand on my hip. He slides the hand up and backwards and then down inside my knickers. He squeezes my bum, pulls me in close and his other hand is inside the vest, fondling. And he’s kissing me.

He’s on fire and suddenly so am I. I’m trying to drag him back onto my bed when Dad shouts from the bottom of the stairs.

‘Do you want any breakfast before you go out, Hermione?’

I pull my mouth from Ron’s and shout, ‘Yes, please, we’ll be down in a minute.’ My voice is ridiculously and nervously high, and Ron is still groping. As I peer past him, I realise that he hasn’t even closed my bedroom door. If Mum or Dad walk upstairs, they’ll see us! I panic.

Ron moves in for another kiss, but he sees my face and instead releases me. I fall backwards onto my bed.

‘Bloody hell, Hermione, sorry, I’ll leave you to get dressed. I thought that you’d be ready; I’ve got a busy day planned for us,’ he says. He’s blushing again, and he thinks that I’m upset because he was feeling me.

‘Busy day…’ I begin.

‘Nice vest … easy access … too easy … shouldn’t’ve done that … sorry,’ he says, backing out of the door and closing it behind him. I hear him thundering downstairs. I can’t give chase because I’m hanging out of my nightwear.

By the time I’m dressed and downstairs, Ron is tucking into toast and strawberry jam and he’s said something to make Mum laugh.

‘You’re late; we should’ve left twenty minutes ago. Why weren’t you ready for me?’ he asks. He’s telling me off, trying to pretend that all this confusion and chaos was my fault. I decide to make him suffer.

‘You’ve messed with my homework diary.’ I wave it in front of his face accusingly. He nods and looks very pleased with himself.

‘Do you want some toast, Hermione?’ Mum asks. I ignore her and glare at Ron.

‘Will you be eating out, or do you want me to make sandwiches?’ Mum continues.

‘What? I’m not going out, Mum, I have exams to revise for,’ I snap. Ron offers me some strawberry jam covered toast.

‘Better eat something now, Hermione. It’ll be a couple of hours before we stop for lunch,’ he says, but he sounds uncertain.

‘I’m not going out,’ I repeat through clenched teeth. Now he’s beginning to look worried, good! He should have just asked me last night, instead of messing with my diary.

‘So, what are you going to do instead?’ Ron asks.

‘Once I’ve sorted the diary out, I’m going to do what I’m supposed to—revise for my exams.’

‘Your diary says that you’re going out with me; why do you want to change that? You seemed pleased to see me a few minutes ago. I got the impression that you wanted me to stay in your bedroom for longer. I’m really sorry that I forgot to close the door,’ Ron grins at me and Dad catches the subtext of those remarks and gives me a “what have you been up to?” look. Ron’s had a few minutes to figure out why I was so worried, and he’s guessed right. He’s getting better at that, too. If I’m not careful, he’ll realise that I’m teasing him.

A day with Ron, or homework? There is no choice, not really. I know that I’m going, but I’m not letting him know yet. I need to make him suffer a little.

‘Just have one day to relax, Hermione,’ Mum tells me. ‘It sounds like Ron’s got a nice day planned; why not go out and enjoy yourself?’

‘Exams,’ I try as an excuse.

‘It’s only one day in the Easter holidays, Hermione. Can’t you spare me one day? I’ve had to swap shifts and work extra hours all next week to get the time off today, and for George’s birthday. This is the only day we can have together, just the two of us,’ Ron pleads.

I look at Mum and Dad. They want me to go, I can tell. Dad thinks that I work too hard, and Mum likes Ron; she says that he’s good for me.

‘Tell me how you altered my homework diary,’ I demand.

‘And then you’ll come out with me?’

It sounds like a question, but it isn’t, it’s a threat. He won’t tell me unless I agree to go out with him. I purse my lips and pretend to ponder. Ron is sneaky; he’s picked up a lot of underhand stuff from Auror training, and from George. He’s obviously confident that I won’t be able to undo his alterations. I stare at him, silently pretending to be angry and watching my family and my boyfriend.

He wants me to go out, and he’s obviously organised something.

It _is_ the only day we can have together.

Ron looks like a naughty little puppy; he’s desperate for me to say yes. I decide that he’s suffered for long enough, so I say what I’ve always been going to say.

‘Yes.’

Ron beams happily, leans across the table and gives me a quick strawberry jam and toast-crumb flavoured kiss. Then he explains what he’s done to my diary.

‘I think that you would be able to figure it out, eventually, because you’re a genius. But I reckon that it would take you hours, because you asked me how I altered it. That’s the trick, I didn’t alter it. You’re a genius, Hermione, there’s no way I could’ve done any magic to your diary that you couldn’t undo fairly quickly. So I bought an identical homework diary and filled in the bits I wanted to fill in, like today. Then I put a “highest priority, do not alter” marker on them. When you went to the loo in the restaurant last night I “borrowed” your diary and used the copying spell they taught us in the Auror Intelligence Gathering class. It copies written words exactly from one document onto another. But your homework diary has an automatic rescheduling feature, so when the spell copied your diary into the new one, it shuffled your days to fit around the “highest priority” stuff I’d already put in it.’ he beamed happily. ‘So there’s no magic for you to undo.’

‘That’s brilliant, Ron.’ I say, and regret my words immediately. He puts on that smug “I’ve just beaten Hermione” look of his. It’s the look I usually only see if he persuades me to play chess, or fly a broom, or argue about Quidditch.

‘C’mon then,’ he says, ‘let’s get ready to go. You’ve made us half an hour late by your dawdling.’

I grab another slice of toast, and get ready to go out with Ron. He refuses to tell me where we’re going.

Mum and Dad wave us off and Mum tells me to have a wonderful day and to relax and enjoy myself. We walk out of Itchen Worthy, the village where I grew up, and into the field we use as a safe Apparition point. I grab his arm and we Disapparate.

We arrive on a deserted beach. We’re in a place called Budleigh Babberton, Ron tells me as he takes my hand and leads me along the beach. As we stroll beneath the red sandstone cliffs, he tells me about his holidays here as a child. I soon realise that these “holidays” were no more than day trips. Budleigh Babberton is at the mouth of the River Otter. It really isn’t far from Ottery St Catchpole. But, to Ron, this ordinary Muggle seaside town is an interesting and exotic place. His enthusiasm is infectious, and I don’t tease him because, as he talks, I realise that my holidays in France with Mum and Dad were much more earnest, less chaotic and (I begin to suspect) not so much fun.

I learned most of my French on those trips, I remind myself sternly.

We walk along the promenade and Ron buys buckets and spades. He’s getting really good with Muggle money; the fact that Harry practically lives in the Muggle world to avoid his many fans has helped. Then he drags me down onto the beach and insists that we build a sandcastle.

Ron can persuade me to do all sorts of silly things. We dig and shift and pat the sands and our knees and feet get wet, because we do it without magic. The tide is coming in quickly and we have to end our efforts.

I have my back to the sea when Ron suddenly grabs me, and lifts me into his arms. He’s spotted a wave. Thanks to Ron, I remain dry, but his shoes and jeans are dark and wet, almost up to his knees. He carries me up the beach then lowers me gently on to dry sand. We hold hands and stand and watch the waves destroy our pathetic castle. Ron grins.

‘I’ve always wanted to see that happen,’ he confesses. ‘When I was little, the twins destroyed anything I built long before the waves did.’

We trudge back up the beach and go to a café on the promenade where we eat a lunch of sausage, egg and chips. Even this meal has significance to Ron. He is showing me himself; he is showing me the little, personal things which make him Ron.

We Apparate to Dartmoor and he takes me for a walk through Wistman’s Wood. The pixies don’t bother us and despite searching we don’t see the ghosts or the Yeth Hounds. This, Ron tells me, is the place where he encountered the Snatchers when...

His guilt is written in capital letters across his face. I ask, and for the first time he tells me the whole story. Somehow, he manages to make a joke of it and his impression of the dimmest of the Snatchers has me laughing.

We move on to Exmoor, as Ron shows me other places from his childhood. We talk and laugh and joke as we stand on the bleak and windswept moors. Ron refuses my suggestions that we visit the museums and art galleries of my childhood.

‘This is my day with you, you’ll have to organise another day to show me what you used to do,’ he says.

It is almost dark when he takes me to Ottery St Catchpole. We are very close to The Burrow, but we don’t visit. Instead, not far from his parents’ wonderful house he shows me a tiny stream and a huge tree, a rope dangling from it.

This was his and Ginny’s secret place. He always ends up getting wet here, he tells me. As if to prove his point, he slips on the grass as he tries to straddle the stream and puts his foot in the water. He won’t let me use magic to dry his wet shoe. He laughs at himself and tells me that it’s traditional that he has at least one wet foot whenever he visits this place.

He insists that I go on the rope swing. I confess that I’ve never ever been on one, but he does not believe me. My squeals as he pushes me out over the stream convince him that I’m telling the truth. I swing wildly; it’s like riding a broomstick, and I’m not in control. He catches me as l swing back into his open arms and we kiss and kiss and kiss.

Before I know it, it’s dark, it’s starting to rain, and we are lying under the tree with our hands inside each others t-shirts and we are enjoying ourselves very much. Then Ron’s pocket watch tinkles.

‘Damn,’ he says regretfully. ‘I’ve got a restaurant table booked; we need to leave.’

He looks unhappy about it. I wonder whether I should give him a choice: me, or food. But I am hungry too. We’ve had a funny, busy, day. Busy doing nothing, I realise, but the time has passed amazingly quickly and very enjoyably.

We Apparate directly outside the entrance of wizard-run restaurant just outside Tintagel; it’s called Merlin’s Circle, and I’ve heard of it. It’s extremely expensive and very posh. The ancient whitewashed stone building is set in open countryside within sight of the large ring of standing stones which give it its name.

What was a light drizzle in Ottery St Catchpole is something much more dramatic on this windswept Cornish coast. We are lashed by cold rain driven in from the west by an Atlantic gale. Ron grabs my hand and we dash inside.

The foyer is stone floored and brightly lit. We tumble through the doors laughing and dishevelled. We have sand and mud on our shoes and jeans. Ron has grass sticking to the back of his sweater and so do I, probably. We are definitely not dressed for this place, and I curse Ron for not telling me where we were going. The diners in the restaurant area are in their very best robes. We’re dressed like Muggles, and scruffy Muggles at that. We’re in jeans, t-shirts and thick wool sweaters. As we walk into the foyer, the head waiter approaches rapidly, a frown on his face. He’s definitely going to throw us out.

‘I’ve got a table for two booked. Sorry ‘bout the clothes, I’ve been busy – undercover, you understand,’ Ron taps the side of his nose conspiratorially as he tells the waiter an outrageous lie. ‘I’m Ron Weasley, Order of Merlin, First Class; I booked the table yesterday. This is…’

While Ron is talking the head waiter looks closely at Ron, then at me and he realises who we are. The change in his expression from contemptuous condescension to flattering obsequiousness is comically instantaneous. We’re nowhere near as famous as Harry, but we’ve stood next to him in so many photos that we’re recognised almost everywhere.

‘… Miss Hermione Granger, also a holder of the Order of Merlin, First Class. Merlin’s Circle restaurant welcomes you both, Mr Weasley, Miss Granger.’ The waiter interrupts Ron smoothly.

I pull out my wand and rapidly clean us both up.

‘I’ve always wanted to come here,’ Ron tells me, grinning broadly. ‘We’re going to be the centre of attention.’

He’s right. Thanks to my efforts we’re now clean and fairly tidy, but we still look like Muggles and we are followed by a disapproving murmur from the other diners as we are escorted through the restaurant to our table. I would never dare to do this by myself, but Ron thinks that it’s one big joke, and soon I do too. Slowly the murmurs move from disapproval to wonder. Our names are on everyone’s lips.

The place is subdued, sedate and unnervingly quiet. It is completely unlike the noisy, friendly, chaos of a meal at the Burrow. A quartet of musicians play popular wizarding songs and the conversations at the other tables are discreet murmurings. Whenever Ron lifts his head, a waiter scurries over to see what we want. This amuses Ron so much that he puts on a nervous twitch causing waiters to step towards us and then stop suddenly when he looks away again. It’s ridiculous, childish behaviour and it should not make me laugh, but it’s Ron, and I do.

The restaurant is outrageously expensive, but Ron insists that he will pay. The meal is very good, but even so, I don’t think that the quality justifies the price.

‘I wanted to treat the girl I love,’ he tells me. ‘I’ve got nothing else to spend my money on, and until now I’ve never had any money to spend.’

‘You should be saving for the future,’ I tell him. He shrugs.

‘There’s plenty of time for that, Hermione, now that we actually _have_ a future. Are you enjoying your day?’

‘I’ve never really spent a day doing nothing before,’ I say. He rolls his eyes.

‘Nothing? Haven’t you been enjoying yourself?’

‘Yes, but…’

‘But you haven’t done any homework and you haven’t been to a museum or done anything “educational” or “worthy”,’ he says. ‘Your problem, Hermione, is that you don’t know how to have fun. He leans closer and suggests, ‘Do something spontaneous, now.’

I look around wildly and panic. He wants me to do something spontaneous in a posh restaurant!

‘I can’t, I don’t know how.’ I say.

He stands walks around the table, and goes down on one knee. For a horrifying heart-stopping second I think that he’s going to propose. Instead, he grabs me and kisses me, tongue and all, in the middle of this busy restaurant. I have never been so embarrassed.

‘Spontaneous is easy.’ He laughs. He stands and shouts across the restaurant.

‘I’d like the bill, please, waiter, I’m taking my girl to the cinema, now.’

The waiter hurries over with our bill and Ron pays for everything despite my protests. We’re going to the cinema! Ron has never been, but he knows that Harry has taken Ginny, and he is curious. I cringe at what’s likely to happen. Ron will probably get us thrown out. The cinema…

We walk outside into the rain and I’m suddenly struck by a moment of madness. Memories of an old film I saw when I was a child flood into my mind. I pull out my wand and I conjure a loudspeaker so that we can hear the restaurant’s tiny orchestra.

‘Dance with me.’ I order. 

‘We’ll miss the film,’ Ron tells me.

‘Spontaneous.’ I remind him.

‘Spontaneous,’ he yells delightedly.

He laughs and grabs me around the waist. We dance until we are soaked to the skin and cold to the bone. The music slows into a definitely smoochy number and, as Ron twirls me around in the rain, I notice that the head waiter is watching us through a window, and he’s not the only one. We continue to dance badly and wetly as the rain lashes us, and then I stop and kiss him.

My sodden sweater is dripping and my jeans are clinging to my legs. I am shivering and the wind is howling around us.

‘We’ve missed the start of the film,’ Ron tells me. He sounds disappointed.

‘We can go another time. Now, we need to go back to Grimmauld Place and get out of these wet clothes,’ I suggest.

‘We can just find shelter and magic ourselves dry,’ he says.

Sometimes, he is an idiot.

‘We need to go back to Grimmauld Place and _get out of these wet clothes_.’ I repeat. Finally, he understands me. He looks at me in amazement.

‘You want us to…?’ he asks.

‘Don’t you?’ I ask, worried. ‘I thought... You practically jumped on me this morning... Why?’

‘Your vest, my vest, was twisted, and I saw the bit of brown flesh that surrounds your nipple. I couldn’t help myself.’

‘It’s called the areola,’ I tell him.

‘What is?’ he looks blank.

‘The bit of brown flesh that surrounds your nipple, A-R-E-O-L-A, areola.’ I poke him in the chest, at the probable location of one of his.

‘Bloody hell,’ he says. ‘Do you know the names for everything?’

Spontaneity, I think again.

‘What’s that?’ I pull up his sweater and t-shirt and point, though I’m shaking with cold.

‘Easy—belly-button,’ he says, as I knew he would. I shake my head and try to look like I’m about to scold him.

‘Navel,’ I tell him.

He laughs and I laugh and look into his bright blue and happiness-wrinkled eyes. We know what we are about to do and together we make the biggest decision of our lives so far. We do it without speaking, we simply kiss.

‘Take me to a telephone box first,’ I tell him.

He grabs my arm and we Apparate to a phone box in Ottery St Catchpole. It’s raining heavily there, too.

‘This is the phone box I used to phone you last summer,’ he says, looking at the red box fondly. We dash inside and I phone home. Mum answers.

‘Hi, Mum, I thought that I’d better let you know that I won’t be home tonight. I’ve had a bit too much to drink, and I don’t trust myself to Apparate. I’m going to use the Floo network to get back to The Burrow to stay with Ginny,’ I lie. It’s surprisingly easy.

I’m not certain that Mum believes me, but I’m nineteen years old, and there’s really not much she can do about it. There are a few moments of silence.

‘Are you sure that you know what you’re doing?’ Mum asks.

‘Yes, Mum, I’m sure.’

‘Please be careful,’ she whispers.

‘I will; goodnight.’ I hang up.

‘Did she believe you?’ Ron asks. I shrug and I stand on tiptoe and pull him down and kiss him. He Disapparates and takes us onto the doorstep of 12 Grimmauld Place, opens the door and ushers me inside.

‘Damn,’ he says. He nods towards the bottom of the stairs. Harry’s and Ginny’s jackets are on the coat stand, dripping water onto the floor. The house, however, is silent.

‘I wonder where they are?’ he ponders.

‘In Harry’s room, getting out of _their_ wet clothes, I hope,’ I tell him.

‘But…’ He panics. I see dozens of conflicting emotions fly across his face.

‘They…’ He tries again.

‘What happened last Saturday, Ron?’ I ask.

‘Ginny … Gryffindor … won the school Quidditch Cup.’

‘And afterwards, Harry and Ginny … celebrated,’ I tell him.

That news hits him like a Bludger between the eyes.

‘Are we going to get out of these wet clothes, or do you want me to leave so that you can interrupt Harry and Ginny?’ I ask. He doesn’t hesitate; he grabs my hand and leads me towards the staircase.

‘Are you going to let me see your a-ree-oh-lah?’ he asks as we squelch upstairs to his bedroom, we both start laughing. The noises from Harry’s bedroom on the floor above are suddenly silenced by a Muffliato spell.


	2. Ginny

**Ginny**

I am supposed to be swotting, revising for my NEWTs.

I’m not.

I can’t even concentrate on the latest copy of Quidditch Weekly. It lies open in front of me on my bed. I try to read it, but my eyes glaze over and my mind keeps straying back to Harry. I look at the photographs and try to concentrate on the Harpies article, but all my mind keeps straying back to my final game for Gryffindor.

Because of next term’s hastily arranged Hogwarts versus Beauxbatons Quidditch match, the final inter-house matches were moved forwards, to before Easter. It seems that Hermione was right, as usual. Creating a school team, with players from all the houses, is bringing the school together, bringing the houses together. After the horrors of last year some inter-house cooperation is a very good thing.

The Beauxbatons game, early next term, will be my final chance to impress the scouts. I hope that I won’t need it. Harry says that I don’t. He says that if I’m not approached by at least one of the professional clubs, then they’re all idiots. I hope he’s right, but Harry is biased. Had Ron seen that last game, I would be certain, he would not spare my feelings. But Ron missed it, and I’m really glad that he did.

My final game as Gryffindor Captain was against Ravenclaw; it was a good one. I played well, my team played well and we won the cup. We demolished the Ravenclaws. We were winning three hundred points to ninety when their Seeker and Captain, Shirley Bramfitt, finally caught the Snitch and gratefully brought the game to a close. Three hundred points to two hundred and forty sounds a lot more respectable.

Apart from Shirley, the Ravenclaws, are a young team. Like Gryffindor, Ravenclaw will need a new Captain next year. We’ll probably need a replacement Seeker too. Young James Devine hasn’t performed as well as I’d hoped. But that’s a problem for the next Captain, not for me.

My mind continues to wander. I cannot even concentrate on Quidditch because thinking about Quidditch inevitably leads me to thinking about Harry and I find myself daydreaming, remembering the celebrations of last Saturday, and the passion of the week which followed. Last week…

Last Saturday, eight days ago, Gryffindor won the Hogwarts Quidditch Cup.

* * *

My team had just won the Quidditch Cup and we’d done it with three straight wins. I’d captained Gryffindor to the first clean sweep since my brother Charlie was Captain. I’d hardly had time to congratulate my team before the jubilant Gryffindor multitude swarmed onto the pitch. My teammates and I were hauled into the air by the mob. They were singing “Weasley is our Queen” at the top of their voices as we headed back to the Gryffindor common room. At that moment, I wished that Ron had been there to hear it.

Thank Merlin he wasn’t.

Suddenly, the inexorable march of the cheering crowds stopped. Silence fell. The hands holding me aloft lowered me gently to the ground. The pack—no, the pride—of Gryffindors parted. I found myself looking at down a corridor of people. Harry stood at the other end. He told me later that he hadn’t said anything, he simply stood in front of the triumphal procession and they halted. The sudden silence was unnatural. Celebrations shouldn’t stop! But there was an air of excited expectation about the crowd. I knew why, and so did Harry. We were fifty feet from each other, but neither of us moved.

‘Good game,’ he said. He spoke calmly, but there was a twinkle in his eye. ‘You’ve won the Quidditch Cup for Gryffindor, just like you did two years ago, and this time, I actually saw you do it! What happens now?’

The last time, in the common room almost two years ago, there had been stunned silence when I ran into his arms. This time, the expectant silence changed to cheers and wolf-whistles the moment we began to move rapidly toward each other. It turned into a roar of approval when we met.

Our kiss seemed to last forever. It was joy and pride and celebration wrapped in love and made passionately physical. The applause and shouts lasted as long as our kiss. They lasted until Headmistress McGonagall’s voice boomed out over the pitch.

‘All non-students _must_ leave the school grounds. All non-students please make your way to the exit, now,’ she ordered. There were boos and catcalls and, although I thought that she said the words reluctantly, I joined in with the complaints. Harry simply grinned.

He kissed me softly on the cheek and whispered, ‘I love you, Ginny. I’ll wait for you in the changing room. Go and celebrate with your team.’

“I love you, Ginny.” I seemed to wait a lifetime to hear those words. Now, almost a year after the Battle, I hear them frequently, but that does not diminish their meaning.

Harry stepped aside and was lost in the crowd. I was immediately hoisted back into the air along with my triumphant teammates and, bouncing along on top of the chanting mob, we were paraded back to the Gryffindor common room to celebrate our victory.

The common room was filled with food and drink and banners and streamers, and the Quidditch Cup was immediately filled with Butterbeer. To cheers, I took the first drink and passed it to Demelza. As soon as that was done, I slipped quietly out from the centre of the celebrating throng. There was an enormous amount of food. Every flat surface was piled high with sandwiches, pies, and tarts.

I wasn’t really hungry, but I grabbed a ham sandwich and then, thinking about Harry, I picked up a couple of slices of treacle tart too.

If I wanted to escape, I’d need to choose my moment. Our replacement Keeper—Roni Bulcock—was, deservedly, being cheered. Roni had played spectacularly well and I was kicking myself for not allowing her to try out at the beginning of the year.

I checked to see what the Hermione was doing. My friend, the Head Girl, was very busy. She was arguing with Ritchie Coote and Jimmy Peakes, trying to confiscate Firewhisky from two Beaters, both of whom were now a lot bigger than she was. While she was distracted, I managed to sneak out of the portrait hole unnoticed.

I dashed down through several secret passages, still in my sweaty Quidditch gear, munching on the sandwich as I went. I had not even thought about changing before I left.

As I ran through the grounds, I wondered if Harry would really be there. I was overcome with nervous hunger and I took a bite from one of the slices of treacle tart. I was certain that Filch would have made absolutely certain that my boyfriend had left Hogwarts. I slipped silently into the changing room. It was empty and echoing … until Harry pulled off his cloak.

‘How?’ I asked.

‘Easy,’ he grinned, ‘Filch watched me go. When I got out of sight I put on my cloak and sneaked back in while he reopened the gate to allow the final few stragglers to leave.’

‘How will you get back out again? The school is sealed,’ I reminded him.

He pulled a thoughtful face. ‘I don’t know, but I’ll think of something,’ he told me as he walked rapidly towards me and enfolded me in his embrace. We were back in what we now agree is our favourite place, each other’s arms.

‘Congratulations, Captain,’ he whispered. ‘Your brilliant team played absolutely brilliantly and you were…’ 

‘Brilliant?’ I asked.

He laughed.

I thought that he would kiss me, but he didn’t. Instead, he talked. It was so unusual that I let him. Harry may not be very good at compliments, but he’s honest.

He told me how he loved the smell of my hair. I ran my fingers through his wonderful, tousled black mop.

‘I love the smell and feel of yours too,’ I told him. After ruffling his hair, I ran my fingers gently across his cheeks. As I did so he grabbed my hand and sniffed it.

‘Broom polish,’ he whispered, his nose almost touching my palm.

‘What do you expect, I’ve been holding onto a broom for almost two hours,’ I told him.

He didn’t speak; he sniffed my hair again, and then went back to my hands, kissing my fingertips and staring into my eyes.

‘I love you,’ he said. ‘I really, truly love you, more than … more than … more than … anything.’

‘More than anything?’ I asked, laughing. He really does need to work on his compliments.

‘Even more than treacle tart?’ I teased. I know that it’s his favourite. ‘I brought you two slices from the party, but I started to eat one on the way here,’ I admitted.

His eyes gleamed. He bent forwards and I inhaled in preparation for a kiss. At last!

But it didn’t come, not then. His tongue darted out and he licked a wayward crumb of treacle tart from the side of my mouth.

‘I love you at least a million times more than treacle tart,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you. I’d be lost and alone. Again!’ There was a catch in his throat as he spoke.

He opened his heart to me. He’d been hurt so often, and he was leaving himself defenceless against me.

 

Harry had been slow to tell me how he felt; at least, he’d been slow to say those three little words.

Patience does not come easily to me, but with Harry, you have to wait until his brain catches up to his feelings. Within a week of the Battle, I’d known that he felt the same way about me as I did about him. He didn’t say the words, of course. But he did tell me that “he wanted to be with me forever” and that’s pretty damn good for a boy who had probably never had the “three little words” spoken to him as he grew up. Over the summer, he’d said “I fancy you” more than once, and I’d known then that he’d get there, eventually.

His first real attempts had been at the beginning of this school year. The first time he tried, he finished a letter “All my love, Harry” I’d been overjoyed. I knew that he was trying, but there had been a few bumps along the way, and he didn’t actually say the words to me until the start of the Christmas holidays. He met me off the Hogwarts Express and that’s when he said “I love you” for the very first time. It was fitting that he finally said the words at the place where we first met, King’s Cross Station. He’d been shy and stammering that first time. Now, a mere three months later, he was baring his soul to me.

 

‘I love you too, Harry. More than everything,’ I whispered. ‘You look great and you smell great, you smell like something familiar, like…’ I wondered what the smell was.

‘Amortentia,’ Harry told me. He was right.

He was still savouring that tiny crumb of treacle tart. He seemed to be staring into infinity, he was lost in his thoughts, but his eyes were bright and happy. And that was it. That was the moment our relationship changed.

I thought that it would be slow, that we would build up to that most intimate act of love over several weeks during the coming summer. I expected that one day, after I’d left school, that we would reach the point of no return. I imagined that it would be after a few hours alone one quiet evening, when snogging on his sofa would lead to something more. But that wasn’t how it happened. That tiny taste of treacle tart stolen from my lips had turned a switch inside Harry’s head. Before I knew what was happening I found myself being kissed with more passion than ever before.

He had lifted me off my feet, _swept me off my feet_ , a part of my brain told me. His lips were hard and hungry against mine. And that wasn’t the only hard and hungry thing about him.

He was the passionate and unstoppable force I’d seen so many times in the past. But this time his incredible, inspiring passion was not directed against his enemies, or towards his friends and allies. This time it wasn’t a passion for justice, for what is right. It was a caring, loving, fervent ardour; it was an overpowering force, and it was being given freely to me. I was swept away by the thundering waterfall of outpoured emotions.

I did not fight it, I allowed myself to be carried away by his emotions and I gave myself to them, allowing myself to be taken by the flood. Our emotions took physical form. I was being lifted off my feet and pressed against the wall. I wrapped my arms around him, and felt his hands on my bum. It took me a few seconds to realise that his hands were actually caressing my flesh. I still have no idea how he managed to unfasten my belt and get his hands inside my clothes without me noticing, but he proved to be very good with his hands, very good indeed.

We didn’t stop kissing; at least, I don’t remember us stopping. I remember my tongue in his mouth and his in mine, and I remember fumbling at buttons and zips. We were very quickly naked.

Thank Merlin for Harry’s Auror training, and for my foresight. Harry immediately had the place secured and surrounded by alarm spells and I used a Summoning Charm to get the contraceptive potion I had hidden under my bed “just in case” this opportunity presented itself.

We celebrated another Gryffindor victory on the Quidditch pitch with a very different (and nowhere near as fluent, but ultimately satisfying) Gryffindor triumph of our own. In many ways, that first time was like a Quidditch match. It was energetic, sweaty, and occasionally frustrating and painful. But by working as a team, we finally won through for each other.

Merlin, he really is good with his hands.

Fortunately, we’d finished and were relaxing in each other’s arms when Hermione finally disturbed our love-making. Our whispered words of love were interrupted by a shimmering silver otter which asked, ‘Ginny, where on earth are you?’ We hastily dressed, each of us in a white-faced panic, before I replied.

I conjured my own Patronus. ‘I’ll be back soon,’ I told her. ‘I’ll tell you when I see you.’

Harry seems to do his best thinking in a crisis. He summoned Kreacher and we finally realised that, with Kreacher’s help he—and therefore I—could enter and leave Hogwarts whenever we wanted to.

After a few last desperate kisses, I reluctantly let my lover leave. Once he’d gone, I hastily returned to the common room. The party was still going strong, and it seemed that no one, except Hermione, had missed me.

‘Where on earth have you been?’ Hermione asked when I got back.

‘Celebrating with Harry,’ I whispered. ‘That’s two victories in one day!’ I added.

It took a few more whispers, and a piercing look, before Hermione finally realised what I meant by “celebrating” and “victory”. She blushed. Beating Ravenclaw and winning the Quidditch cup has now led to two very important days in my life, and in Harry’s, too.

* * *

That was over a week ago. Since then Harry and I have spent more evenings together than we have apart. I was at Grimmauld Place with him every possible evening, and I stayed until the early hours of the morning. We missed a few days when Ron wasn’t working the late shift. Harry doesn’t want Ron to know that I’ve been outside Hogwarts, he’s worried about what will happen if Ron finds out what we’ve been doing.

But it isn’t “if” Ron finds out, it’s “when” Ron finds out. He will, and it will probably be soon, because Hermione knows. Ron lets everyone think that he’s thick and insensitive. In many ways he is, but he can read Hermione almost as easily as Hermione can read a book. He always seems to know when something is troubling her. Although he doesn’t always know what’s wrong he will pester her and try to find out, and he won’t be subtle about it.

Friday was the end of term feast and last night was my first night “home for Easter”, so there was no chance that Mum would have let me stay out overnight. Tonight, however, is a different matter. I close the still unread magazine, and go downstairs and make my plans.

Mum and Dad are both in the kitchen when I descend the stairs from my bedroom. There is a pot of tea on the table; Mum is reading Witch Weekly while Dad reads the Sunday Prophet. I look my mother in the eyes before I speak; Dad can safely be ignored. When I lie to Mum, it’s essential that I do it to her face, and I’m about to tell her several whoppers. I lick my dry lips before speaking.

‘I’ve already done three hours of Charms revision today,’ I say. That’s my first lie, the easy one. I was trying to read Quidditch Weekly, but I wasn’t even able to do that because my daydreams about Harry interrupted me. Mum nods understandingly.

‘And I’m going to go to Hermione’s this evening and we’re going to do our Transfiguration homework together.’ That’s the second lie. But it’s only partly a lie, because that _was_ the plan, it was even written in Hermione’s homework diary. But she is no longer any part of my plans for the day.

Last night at Antonio’s Italian restaurant, while Hermione visited the loo, Ron made some alterations to Hermione’s diary. My plans no longer involve Hermione, because now she figures very strongly in Ron’s latest campaign. Ron and Harry made me promise not to tell her. Ron intends to take her out for the day. I don’t know what he’s planning, but I really don’t think that they will be calling at The Burrow. There is very little chance that Mum will find out where I really am.

‘Hermione says that it’ll be all right for me to stay over tonight too,’ I tell Mum. ‘She’s stayed here often enough; she’d like me to stay over at her parents place for a change.’ This is the big lie; Hermione knows nothing about this either, though I’m confident that she’ll cover for me when I tell her. I haven’t even told Harry what I’m intending, because I’ve only now decided to take the risk.

I miss him, I need him, and I’m certain that he won’t object to me spending the night with him. I know that he’s on the evening shift tomorrow. We’ll have a lot of time together, I hope.

‘Harry’s meeting me at the shop at three o’clock, after he’s finished work. We’re going to check up on George and then we’re going out for a meal. After that, I’m going straight to Hermione’s. It’s the Easter holidays, Mum, I _need_ to see Harry whenever he’s not working, but I _will_ do more swotting tomorrow, I promise. It _is_ still eight weeks to the first exam.’

‘Harry wouldn’t want you to fail any of your NEWTs, Ginny,’ Mum tells me. ‘They are very important for your future career, remember.’

‘I know, Mum, I’ll work hard, and I’ll be good, I promise,’ I tell her even though I don’t think that Harry has given my exam results any thought at all.

Harry was accepted into the Auror Office without any NEWTs. I want to become a professional Quidditch player and I know that the clubs certainly won’t care about my NEWT results. Thinking about Quidditch makes me think about Harry and I begin to daydream again. I take a deep breath and try to relax. I don’t want to appear too eager in front of Mum, she might suspect.

‘Are you going to change your clothes before you go out?’ Mum asks. She examines my choice of attire with a critical gaze.

I’m in combat trousers and crop-top. Mum and Dad were relaxed about us wearing Muggle clothes when we were younger; Mum used to buy them for me from Muggle charity shops, because no one in the wizarding world could identify the clothes as being second-hand and unfashionable; we were simply “those eccentric Weasleys”. Now that I shop for myself, she’s not so happy about my choice of clothes. She doesn’t like me to display my belly-button. _Harry does, and his tongue…_ I force myself to calm down again, because Mum is looking at me suspiciously.

‘It’s the Muggle fashion, Mum,’ I explain. ‘Actually, with this top I could wear a skirt this short and it would be perfectly acceptable.’ I place my hand only just below my crotch. Mum looks horrified, recognises the threat in my words, and shakes her head in resignation.

‘Off you go, then. Have a nice afternoon. And be sure to thank Hermione’s parents for their hospitality,’ Mum tells me.

‘I will,’ I say. I hug her, kiss Dad’s bald patch and say goodbye to them both. I grab some Floo powder and walk towards the kitchen fireplace.

Dad looks up from the Sunday Prophet. He’s been reading the paper and ignoring everything else, as usual. He smiles at me and says, ‘I hope that you’re not intending to do anything we wouldn’t approve of, Ginny.’ There’s a twinkle in his eye. _He_ can’t suspect, can he? My lips are dry again.

‘Of course not, Dad,’ I promise him. This is an easy promise to give. They had seven kids, therefore, though I don’t like to think about it, they must approve of what Harry and I have been doing for the past week.

 

Harry is late. It is after four when he finally gets to the shop, because the Auror Office thought that they had a lead on Sigbert Scabior. Unfortunately, like the last lead, this one came to nothing. When Harry finally arrives, we spend a few hours with George. We try to cheer him up, but with little success. He’s down because it is his birthday in a few days. He refers to it as “my first birthday” and it’s heartbreaking, because it’s true.

Last year was the twins’ twentieth birthday; this year is George’s first.

It is after half past seven when we get to the Leaky Cauldron. Hannah, bless her, manages to find us a small table in a quiet corner. Even so, several people approach Harry while we eat. A very small girl shyly asks Harry for an autograph, which he gives with an embarrassed smile. Hannah then goes from table to table, asking her other customers to allow us to eat in peace. This is why we rarely eat out in the Wizarding world; Harry hates the attention. Last night’s meal at Antonio’s in Soho with Ron and Hermione was wonderful. We ate and talked and, because we were in Muggle London, no one bothered us.

While we eat I finally admit to Harry what I have planned for the night.

His eyes are bright and mischievous when I tell him. He thought that I’d be going back to The Burrow after the meal. Then his face creases into a worried frown.

‘What about Ron? He’ll be home sometime tonight. And what will we do in the morning?’ he asks.

‘Leave Ron to me,’ I tell him.

‘But,’ Harry begins.

‘Leave Ron to me, Harry,’ I repeat. ‘I can handle him, although I probably won’t need to. I reckon that Ron is planning “the seduction of Hermione Granger” tonight. I just hope that he finally manages to get off with her. If he doesn’t, it will be his own fault. All he needs to do is make her forget about the bloody exams for one day and they will end up in bed together. They both need it!’

Harry’s smile falls from his face and he tries to look impassive. He fails, and looks shocked instead.

I have to smile. Despite the fact that _we’ve_ been doing it, Harry still doesn’t want to think of his two best friends in that way. Ron will probably be worse when he finally finds out about Harry and me, but Hermione and I have already begun planning a holiday this summer, for just the four of us. So the boys will have to get used to the sleeping arrangements. No more Harry and Ron in one room, Ginny and Hermione in the other. From now on, it’s Harry and Ginny, Ron and Hermione, and if Ron complains—and really, given the alternative he’s being offered, I don’t think that he will; my brother is many things, but he’s not a hypocrite—I’ll hex him.

‘Harry,’ I tell him. ‘Hermione has been driving me crazy with her revision notes and timetabling. She is even trying to organise my revision schedule for me. A good sha…’

‘She tried to do that for me and Ron, too. Organise our revision. But she never succeeded,’ interrupts Harry, hastily.

‘Ron can make her relax,’ I say with confidence. ‘And a relaxed and happy Hermione might not nag me about revision.’

‘Don’t count on it,’ Harry warns me. ‘It takes a lot to distract Hermione from schoolwork, and as for... Anyway... Those two can miss the most obvious of opportunities.’

‘True,’ I agree. ‘But you can talk. I practically had to jump on you for our first snog!’

‘You did jump on me,’ he admits. ‘You’re braver than me. I was too frightened of Ron to do anything.’

‘And you are _still_ frightened of Ron.’ I grin as I tease him. ‘Tom Riddle, no, you weren’t afraid of _him_ , but my daft brother... It’s ridiculous! But don’t worry, Harry, I’ll protect you from him.’ He laughs at the truth of my words.

‘What if they come back to Grimmauld Place, too?’ Harry asks.

‘Then Ron will find out tonight, not tomorrow,’ I say.

‘ _Ron_ will find out…’ Harry begins, realising what I’ve just said. I nod.

‘Harry, after the Quidditch game I was in the changing room, away from the “real” victory celebrations, for more than an hour. When I got back to the common room, Hermione wanted to know where I’d been and what I’d been doing, so I told her,’ I whisper the information, despite the fact that we’re using a Muffliato spell to keep our conversation private.

Harry looks pale. ‘Hermione knows?’

I nod again.

‘Of course she knows. You sent Kreacher to get me out of Hogwarts on Sunday night, and again on Tuesday and Wednesday. Did you think that I could have spent those evenings with you without Hermione’s help?’

‘She helped?’ I have to smile at the astonishment on his face. In some ways he is so naïve, sometimes I think that he’s worse than Ron.

‘Yes, the Head Girl helped me to play truant. She lectured me about swotting, and about how close the exams are, but despite the fact that I was with you and not revising for exams, she still covered for me. She made certain that the other girls in our dorm didn’t find out that I was in your bedroom, not the library. And I will return the favour for her whenever I can next term, if my useless brother finally manages to get her into his bed,’ I say.

‘Ron’s not useless, and won’t be his fault if he … if they ... if…’ Harry is unable to say the words so he tries again. ‘Like you said, Hermione’s in full pre-exam panic. I know how that makes her, and you do, too. I honestly didn’t think that Ron’s trick with her homework diary would work. But, as he hasn’t been in touch with the office today, I suppose it must have done—unless Hermione has murdered him.’ Harry, as always, tries his best to defend my brother. This time there’s some truth in what he says.

‘One thing Ron is really good at is persuading Hermione to break rules,’ I remind him.

‘You’re pretty good at doing that, too, apparently,’ he tells me.

‘So are you,’ I remind him. ‘She helped to keep you safe, Harry, safe for me. I’d do anything for her.’

‘So would I,’ he admits.

It is almost nine o’clock when we leave. I am holding Harry’s hand as we walk towards the door out into the Muggle world. He, like me, hears one of the two middle-aged witches near the door say, ‘Outrageous, the things these young witches wear, they show too much flesh and look like Muggles.’

‘That’s the idea,’ I tell them. I prevent Harry from losing his temper by pulling him into the Muggle world and squeezing his very squeezable bum. We are standing on Charing Cross Road. It is dark, but the well lit streets are still bustling.

The door to the pub closes and we are instantly invisible to wizardkind. Out here, no one shouts “Mr Potter, Mr Potter!” Out here we are simply two ordinary young people on an ordinary street. It is liberating, but sometimes, and often for the wrong reasons, Harry has difficulty leaving the magical world behind.

‘How dare they—’ Harry begins. I kiss him.

‘So long as you like what I’m wearing, Harry, I don’t care what anyone else thinks,’ I tell him. ‘The old witches didn’t like my bare arms and bare belly, so what? They’re probably talking about your ridiculous clothes too, but it doesn’t matter. Because I think you look great.’

Harry is smartly dressed; he usually is these days. He spent seventeen years wearing old and badly fitting Muggle clothes. That seems to have made him determined to be smart from now on. He is wearing a patterned open neck shirt and black trousers. I look into his eyes and he smiles.

‘You look wonderful, and beautiful,’ he tells me.

He takes my hand in his and we walk up Charing Cross Road to Tottenham Court Road tube station. We travel a couple of stops on the Underground, to Chancery Lane, and then begin the twenty minute walk to Grimmauld Place.

We stride through the streets, hand in hand. We’re on our way home.

_Home?_ That thought catches me by surprise.

Will it be our home? I wonder. In three more months I will be leaving Hogwarts, what will happen to us when I leave? Where will I live? Mum would go mad if I moved in with Harry, unless we got married. But I don’t want to get married, not yet.

 

We discussed this a few days ago, last Wednesday evening. It was after midnight, so, really, it was not Wednesday but very early on Thursday morning, and we were in his bed.

Harry understands. I didn’t think that he would, but he does. We’d been discussing my hopes for a career as a professional Quidditch player. I’d been telling him my dreams.

‘I’d love to play for the Harpies, and England, if I’m good enough. Wouldn’t it be great to have an England shirt with my name on the back?’ I asked. ‘Ginny Weasley, Chaser. I want to be…’ I stopped, because I suddenly realised that what I’d been about to say might upset him. He was relaxed and happy, but then we’d just spent three hours in bed together, so that’s no surprise. He filled the silence I’d left with his own words, and he was thinking the same things as me.

‘I love you and I want to marry you,’ he said with heart-stopping certainty. I was sure that he was about to propose; after all, we’d “done it” a few times. But then his voice changed and he spoke softly, and almost apologetically, ‘But I don’t suppose that you want to be Mrs Potter for a while yet.’

He then proceeded to tell me everything that I wanted to hear.

‘It’s bad enough for you now, Ginny. You’re not Ginny Weasley anymore; you’re “Harry Potter’s girlfriend” or even “The Chosen One’s Chosen One”.’ He curled his lips in disdain at the term. ‘You’re not a person in your own right. It’s like you’re invisible, or—at best—my shadow. I know that you hate that, and you know that I do too. But there’s not much we can do about it. Ron and Hermione have lived with being “Potter’s pals” for years and it’s wrong.’

‘I know, Harry, but you can’t control the press,’ I reassured him. My heart was beating ninety to the dozen as I wondered where this conversation was going.

‘You _are_ your own person, and you want to prove that, don’t you?’ he asked me. He understood! He knew, really knew, how I felt. I was astonished by his insight.

‘Yes,’ I said, surprised.

‘Believe me; I’d be really happy if, in a few years, the newspaper headlines read “England Quidditch star, Ginny Weasley, marries some bloke from the Auror Office”.’ He smiled at me, his green eyes twinkling. I laughed, and I kissed him.

Then he put on a very serious face.

‘Provided that the “bloke from the Auror Office” is me, of course,’ he added.

I did believe him. He meant it; there was no doubt that he meant it. And I loved him even more. And I spent most of the next half hour saying an energetic thank you. I showed him how much that his words meant to me and he showed me, too. I didn’t get back to Hogwarts until half past two in the morning.

It won’t happen of course, because he’s _Harry Potter_ , and he always will be. But it is a nice dream. We’re not engaged and we’re not planning on getting engaged until after I have a career established.

 

We are together and we love each other, and that’s all that anyone needs to know for now.

We are approaching a pub called The Griffin when it begins to rain. I stop and look up unto the grey sky and I decide that everyone needs to know how I feel. I wonder how Harry will respond.

‘I love Harry Potter,’ I shout at the top of my voice. The other pedestrians stop what they are doing, whether it’s looking for shelter or fumbling with umbrellas and they stare at us. Harry grins and does not hesitate.

‘I love Ginny Weasley,’ he yells as the rain begins in earnest.

We are only ten minutes from Grimmauld Place. We run home hand in hand, laughing all the way. We are soaked to the skin and our wet hair is plastered to our heads. After hanging our jackets on the stand in the hall, we dash upstairs to Harry’s bedroom. It’s not even ten o’clock when we begin to help each other out of our wet clothes. I’m cold, but that’s not why I have goosebumps. I will have to try shouting those words in Diagon Alley too, I think.

We’ve just slipped under the sheets and we’re starting to warm each other up, to get down to business, when we hear Ron and Hermione arrive. Ron’s voice is a low murmur. Whatever he’s said has made Hermione laugh. We hear them laughing and giggling as they climb the stairs. Ron’s bedroom is on the floor below. But as a precaution Harry locks and secures his bedroom door and I cast a Muffliato spell.


	3. Ron

**Ron**

I move slowly and carefully, propping myself up on my elbow so that I can watch her sleeping.

We were still holding hands when I finally fell asleep, and our fingertips were still touching when I woke up moments ago. Bloody brilliant!

I don’t want to disturb her, so I’m reluctant to move, but I must. My leg is aching and stiff, and it’s not the only thing. She sighs and moves slightly. She doesn’t wake, but I lose the one point of fingertip to fingertip, flesh to flesh, contact that I had.

Flesh to flesh!

Bloody Hell!

I don’t want to move away from her, but if I want to get some feeling back in my leg, if I want to watch her, I must.

I slide sideways, away from her, and turn cautiously onto my side (some people might say gingerly, but I’m a Weasley, we always do everything gingerly). I grin to myself at my very crappy, and very old, joke.

Moving across the bed allows me to bend my knee and I begin to get some feeling back in my leg. Now, as I finally relax onto my side, I can really see her. I watch her sleeping. I’m happy, no, ecstatic. I’m feeling better than I ever have in my entire life and I want to feel like this forever. The reason is lying next to me. 

I have watched her sleeping before. I have shaken her awake and soothed her to sleep countless times over several years. I have even shared a room with her, more times than I can count, but Harry was always there too. Last night, however, was the first time we shared a bed.

I gaze at her perfect features, still relaxed in sleep.

She is beautiful; masses of brown hair tumble wantonly over the white pillow.

Bloody hell! I’m starting to think poetic thoughts! It must be love.

It _is_ love, and it’s turning me soppy.

And I don’t care!

Her eyelashes are long and fine, they are perfect. They make me want to kiss her closed eyelids, but I don’t. There is a faint half-smile on her lips and it creates a very kissable crease at the side of her mouth. I don’t kiss her there, either, although I want to.

Her skin is pale. The tan from last summer’s French sunshine has faded into nothing and she’s probably as pale as I am (on those few bits of my skin that aren’t covered in freckles).

She is beautiful. She doesn’t think so, apparently. I often wonder what she heard, and overheard, at school. I know that Pansy was always rude about Hermione’s appearance. I have no idea why. I suppose that it must have been jealousy, because pug-face was no great beauty, and definitely not a genius. Pansy was better looking than muscle-bound Millicent and horse-faced Daphne, big deal. Maybe Pansy was always horrible to Hermione because she needed to get her retaliation in first.

But Pansy wasn’t the only one. On the morning after the Battle, I was walking down the dormitory stairs when I overheard Seamus and Dean talking. They were in the Gryffindor common room.

‘They reckon that Ron snogged Hermione,’ said Dean conspiratorially.

‘He’s mad,’ said Seamus. ‘He had Lavender, all curves and passion, and he ditched her to chase after a bossy, screeching, know-it-all, an annoying pain in the arse.’

‘Parvati and Padma and Lavender are _all_ better looking than…’ Dean was saying when I walked in to the common room. They fell silent and exchanged a guilty look. Somehow, I managed to keep my mouth shut. I think that they knew I’d heard them, and that I wanted to thump both of them. But I said nothing, and did nothing, because Seamus’ girlfriend, the stomach-churning Lavender, was in the hospital wing and no one knew whether she would survive.

Seamus and Dean are idiots. Hermione is none of those things; she’s forceful, opinionated and clever. And she’s bloody gorgeous. Hermione would never expect me to wear naff jewellery, and she certainly wouldn’t buy it for me. She isn’t silly or soppy and she _is_ beautiful. Sometimes, however, I think I’m the only one who’s noticed how wonderful she is. Perhaps that’s a good thing.

She doesn’t have the curves of Lavender, but she’s… What is she? I wonder.

After all of the funerals last summer, while Hermione was with her parents for those long weeks of enforced separation, I asked Ginny if she thought that Hermione was good-looking. She said yes, Hermione was definitely attractive. Ginny claimed that Krum still fancied Hermione, although I think she was teasing me. I told Ginny that not everyone thought so, that Pansy was always rude about her appearance. Ginny told me that Pansy was half-troll, and besides pug-face had snogged Draco, therefore her opinion on absolutely everything was worthless.

Ginny also said that different boys find different things attractive, and so do girls. We’re all different, Ginny said. She told me that I should be very grateful that we _are_ all different, because Hermione, who is intelligent in every other way, was somehow blind to the fact that her boyfriend was a lanky, ginger idiot with a big nose and a permanently gormless expression.

I asked Ginny if she’d actually noticed that she was snogging a scrawny, speccy scruff. She just laughed and told me that she was very glad that I didn’t fancy her boyfriend.

Ginny can be really annoying sometimes, but she’s my sister, we’re supposed to annoy each other. There are times when Hermione annoys me too, but so did Lavender. Strangely, although Hermione annoys me, Lavender used to drive me crazy. I think I’ve finally figured out why. Lavender was—frilly—she talked constantly, but it was always about nonsense, clothes and stuff. Why is it that an annoying Hermione is still bearable, and even fun to argue with? When Lavender was annoying she was just—annoying!

Harry doesn’t fancy Hermione, I know that now. He’s told me often enough. He thinks that she’s sort-of-good-looking, but he doesn’t like her hair. I think he needs new glasses. I love Hermione’s hair; I love the fact that I get a face full of her hair when we hug.

Harry says that she goes on and on about house-elf rights and stuff too. He’s right, she does, but so does he. It’s just that he goes on about different stuff, like Death Eaters.

I look down at my sleeping girlfriend. I think she’s wonderful. Who cares what anyone else thinks?

One arm, the one furthest away from me, lies above the duvet. The duvet itself is lying across her at an angle. It’s trapped under her far armpit.

I can see the top of the very faint scar on her chest. It’s the scar she was given by that Death Eater at the Ministry. That was almost three years ago I realise. Until I saw her in a bikini last summer, I had never seen it. She pointed it out to me at the time. I think that she expected me to make some stupid, insensitive comment. I didn’t. Instead, I told her the truth, I said that I hadn’t noticed it.

She didn’t believe me; she called me a liar! So I reminded her that she was wearing a bikini, that she was revealing a lot of places I’d never seen before and that I had things to look at that were a lot more interesting than an almost invisible scar. That made her blush. Her blushes are incredible. Her cheeks turn rose-red.

I can find that scar, but only because I know where to look. It _is_ very difficult to see, thanks to Madam Pomfrey, unlike the scars on my arms.

She is relaxed and peaceful in sleep and she is Hermione-beautiful, it’s not her face, or her nose, or her figure I like. It is her, all of her, but particularly her legs and her ankles, and her bum, and her ... no, I was right the first time, it _is_ all of her. I continue my observations.

Closer to me the bedclothes are even lower and I see the tiniest fraction of brown areola peeking out. That’s how all this happened … sort of … possibly.

Areola is a word I didn’t know until yesterday. Hermione taught me several new words yesterday, and she used one that I thought I’d never hear her say. She always tells me off when I use _that_ word, “will you stop effing, Ron” she says. She doesn’t _ever_ use that word. But she did last night. As she pointed out rather earthily, it was the correct word for what we were doing at the time.

Bloody hell!

Last night! Me and Hermione! It was sticky and sweaty and rather uncoordinated and I didn’t do much for her, not at first. ‘We just need to practice,’ she told me, while I apologised.

I really don’t deserve her.

We persevered. She told me where, and how, to touch her. Merlin! That was a worthwhile lesson. Now, at nine o’clock in the morning I’m wide awake and staring at her and my memories from last night mean that I’m quite literally and physically up for a bit more practice. But I know her too well; she can be rather crabby in the morning.

I don’t dare wake her.

I want to. Because, well, because…

But I don’t want to, because she looks so peaceful and perfect, and she’s mine. And last night, for the first time, we slept together.

Ginny teases me all of the time. She once said that Hermione and I spent almost nine months sleeping together. But that was in a tent with Harry. And we were on the run. And a lot of the time I was being a complete arse. But, apparently, Hermione never hated me. That’s what she said last night, anyway.

I’ve no idea why she didn’t hate me, because for a lot of the time I hated myself.

So I watch Hermione sleep.

She is breathing in through her nose, and out through her mouth. Her lips are relaxed and they open slightly with a soft ‘puhhhh’ sound every time she breathes out. The regular, gentle, noise is making my heart beat faster. She is driving me crazy (but she always drives me crazy and I love that, too). Then I realise that the ‘puhhhh’ sound is the way some of the noises she was making last night started. Merlin, those noises were even better. Her little panting sighs turned to rasps and gasps and finally grunts, several ‘Oh, fuck’s’, and a squeal.

I am driving myself wild with these thoughts.

I want to wake her and get more practice. The trouble is, if I wake her, she’ll be annoyed with me.

This is so frustrating!

I think about last night, even though that simply adds to my frustration.

I really didn’t expect us to come back here. I think that somewhere, at the back of my mind, I sort of hoped. But really, all I wanted was to take her out for the day, just the two of us. I wanted to give her a holiday from revision, because she works too hard. But somehow we ended up here, in bed together. She had wanted to do this for a long time, apparently.

I wish I’d known _that_ sooner.

Last night she was giving me lots of instructions, so I asked her how she knew what to do—we both knew that it was the first time for each of us.

She’d read some books on the subject, she said; I should have guessed. I asked if they had pictures and to my astonishment, she blushed. So I suggested that we take a practical exam, and that made her laugh. I love to make her laugh, she has a wonderful laugh. It’s not easy to make her laugh, but it’s always worth it.

Damn! My leg’s going to sleep again.

I shift, it’s only slightly but it’s enough to move the duvet down an inch. I notice the contrast between skin, areola and nipple. I stare.

If she was awake Hermione would accuse me of looking at her breasts (and that’s the word she’d use for them). I’d admit that I was, and I’d tell her that they’re nice tits (because that’s the word I’d use), and they are well worth looking at. Anyway, what else are they for, apart from fondling and kissing, obviously?

Merlin, I need some relief! I am going to go crazy here! I could…

I begin to move my hand down to my cock. But if she wakes up, and she’s up for it, that would be better than me simply…

I force myself to simply watch and wait.

It’s weird the way her tits almost disappear when she’s lying on her back. They’re still very nice, but they sort of fall to the sides and I want to move them back on top.

I have to stop myself from doing just that.

Look, but don’t touch, Ron.

I am _definitely_ going to go crazy here!

What can I do to take my mind off Hermione?

I look at my scarred and freckled forearm instead. That doesn’t work! I move my arm towards her, to try to compare colours, but I disturb the duvet again, and she opens one eye. Her brown eyes are bright, and I realise that her breathing changed some time ago. I wonder how long she’s been awake.

‘What’re you doing, Ron?’ she asks drowsily.

‘Comparing colours. I’m sorry, I didn’t want to disturb you,’ I apologise.

‘Colours?’

I slide my arm under the duvet, cup her right boob, and try to explain. I have big hands, Keeper’s hands, and her tit fits easily within it. I move the soft flesh back onto her chest and watch it flow under my fingers. She doesn’t slap my hand away, but instead smiles sleepily.

‘My skin and freckles, and your skin and _areola_.’ I make a meal of pronouncing the last word.

‘You like that word, don’t you?’ She’s laughing at me. That is always good.

‘Areola, areola, areola,’ I say in a sing song voice. ‘Actually, Hermione, it’s probably your areolas that I like, not the word for them. But I’ll need to take a much closer look at them to be absolutely sure,’ I tell her. I lower my head towards her chest and she laughs.

‘You are incorrigible, Ron,’ she tells me.

‘I certainly don’t need much incorrigement to get closer to you,’ I agree. While she’s laughing at my very bad pun I begin to flick her right nipple with my thumb. As it stiffens and hardens under my touch, I lower my head further and softly blow on her left areola, that nipple twitches tantalisingly and I have no option but to lick it. I am desperate, rampant, and almost painfully hard.

I roll over. Still kissing one tit and fondling the other I crouch above her, one knee between her legs. My cock brushes her leg. Her hand encircles it and I groan.

‘Merlin, I think it’s bigger that it was last night,’ she says.

‘What is?’ I ask teasingly.

‘Your penis,’ she says.

‘Penis!’ I laugh at the word.

‘Breast,’ I say. I squeeze it.

‘Areola,’ I say. I encircle it with my thumb.

‘Nipple,’ I say. I flick it gently. Then I release her tit. While I’m watching it move sideways I slide my hand downwards.

‘Navel.’ I barely stop, but my fingers tickle it as my hand continues downward.

Hermione giggles, another good thing.

My fingers reach a forest of hair.

‘Mons pubis,’ I tell her proudly, proving that I was paying attention last night. She thinks that I never pay attention, but I do when it’s something important, like Quidditch and Chess; and Hermione.

‘And on top of the mountain, the Forest of Hermione.’ I run my fingers through her tangled pubes. I’m suddenly curious, I wonder how far my hand will stretch. I extend my thumb up, so that the tip rests gently in her belly-button. I then extend my fingers downwards.

‘Clitoris,’ I tell her. She moans. My forefinger has easily reached that pleasure point, so I slowly massage it. I extend my middle, ring and little fingers.

‘Vagina,’ I say, as the three other fingers slide inside the moist warmth.

Her hand tightens around my dick. Her thumb slides up the outside and I discover a pleasure point I didn’t know I had.

‘Fuck,’ I say as her thumb reaches the point where my foreskin meets the purple helmet.

‘Do you like that?’ she asks, rubbing it again.

‘Fuck, yes,’ I tell her. ‘But you’d better stop it if you want…’ I raise an enquiring eyebrow. My fingers continue to massage and probe.

‘If I want what?’ she asks. ‘If I want you to fuck me?’ She releases my cock, and now I’m more desperate than ever.

‘I do,’ she tells me.

I push myself up with me left arm sit up while continuing to finger her. The duvet falls down my back. She was naked under the bedcovers, now she is simply naked. I can see as well as feel her, so I examine her closely. My gaze moves from bushy brown hair, mischievous brown eyes, lips which seem fuller than usual, lovely boobs, belly button and finally down to … bushy brown hair. I smile as I try to imprint her appearance on my mind.

‘You’re letting the cold air in. Warm me up,’ she demands.

So I do. I withdraw my fingers and she spreads her legs for me. This is probably basic stuff, but we’re both new to this game, and we’re learning together. Before I try to enter her, I slide down the bed and kiss her nose, and then her lips. It’s slow, tongue tangling and sloppy, and as we kiss I can feel her pubes tickling my belly-button. I’m so much taller than she is that I can’t kiss her while we’re fucking. At least, I haven’t figured out how to do it yet, perhaps if she was on top and I was sort of bent?

I raise myself up, hands each side of her head, arms extended and I look down at her impish face. I take it slowly and she reaches down to guide my cock into her nest. My instinct is to ram myself in, hard and fast, but I don’t. I slide slowly inside her, concentrating on her face. Is this what she wants, what she likes? I need to know. After all the better it is for her the more likely it is she’ll want to do it again, and again and…

She wraps her legs round me. I feel her heels on the back of my thighs, her hands grab my arse and she pulls me deep inside and begins gently grinding her hips.

‘Ppuhhhh, puhhhh,’ her little panting sighs begin. She likes the grinding motion, so I do it too and she smiles at me. She’s starting to sweat, and so am I. Her sighs become moans of pleasure. ‘Hhng, hhng.’

‘Fuck … hard … now,’ she tells me. I obey, thrusting and gasping until she approaches her peak. I’m reaching the point of no return, too. Timing is everything, I realise. She squeals and groans beneath me as she reaches her climax and three hard thrusts are enough to finish me, too.

‘Fuck, that was good,’ she tells me. She lets out a contented purr, throws her arms around my neck, and pulls me down for a kiss.

‘It was.’ I agree. ‘I love you, Hermione,’ I tell her. I roll off her, but she follows me over and we lie on our sides, facing each other, kissing, and relaxing in each others’ arms. We are holding each other tightly when we hear a thump and a squeal from upstairs.

‘It sounds like Harry and Ginny are awake,’ Hermione tells me unnecessarily.

That’s something I don’t want to think about. But it’s something that I’m going to have to get used to, especially while I’m living at Grimmauld Place with Harry.

I roll over onto my back, and Hermione snuggles up to me and slides an arm over my chest. She kisses my cheek.

‘Good morning, boyfriend,’ she whispers.

‘It is a _very_ good morning, beautiful girlfriend, very good indeed. The best ever,’ I reply.

‘I’m not beautiful,’ she says.

‘You are,’ I tell her drowsily. ‘You are without a doubt…’

She frowns at me, preparing to argue.

‘…The most beautiful girl…’

I watch as she prepares a list of girls she foolishly thinks are more beautiful than she is.

‘…In this bed,’ I tell her triumphantly. She laughs, because she can’t argue with that, and we hug, bare flesh to bare flesh.

I close my eyes for a moment.

* * *

When I open my eyes I’m alone in my bedroom. I move my hand across to Hermione’s side of the bed.

Hermione’s side… Do we have sides? How does that work? When we parted last night I rolled onto the left side of the bed, and Hermione took the right. We did the same this morning. Will we always do that? Why?

This morning, and for many more mornings I hope, the right side is her side. It is not quite cold; a faint and fading warmth remains. I roll over onto the comforting shadow of her heat, the last lingering warmth she has left for me. It feels good, and it smells Hermione.

I am happily soaking up the Hermioneness in my bed when my stomach reminds me that it’s time for breakfast. I look around the room and realise that Hermione’s clothes have gone. She will probably be in the kitchen—with Harry and Ginny!

Damn! What am I supposed to do? What happens now? Hermione knew about Harry and Ginny and she didn’t tell me. Am I supposed to go downstairs and pretend that nothing has happened? I can’t!

_‘Go get some breakfast, Ron,’_ my stomach tells me. Suddenly, I’m ravenous. If I stay here, I’ll starve. That’s not an option.

I dress and head for the bathroom. That’s where I realise that the hollow feeling in my stomach is not only hunger, it is worry too. In a few minutes I must face my girlfriend, my best friend and my sister.

My sister and Harry have been…

And I know!

Hermione and I have been…

And they know!

What do I do?

I can’t hide forever, so I dry my hands and face, and head downstairs.


	4. Harry

**Harry**

Her warm breath gently tickles my jaw.

‘I know that you’re awake, Harry.’ Her voice is a soft and sultry whisper close to my ear.

She is correct but I don’t want to admit it, not yet.

I keep my eyes shut and try to keep my breathing shallow and regular. I’ve done this before. Almost a year ago, I fooled Tom Riddle. This time, my task will be much more difficult, and all I’m doing is pretending to be asleep.

The morning light shines pinkly through my still-closed eyes, but I do not open them. Instead, I concentrate on my other senses. I want to remember this feeling forever. I want to memorise this moment, and to do that I need to listen, to feel, and to smell.

For the first time in my life, I have woken up in bed with the girl I love. If I look at her, sight will overwhelm my other senses, the sight of Ginny always does. I must try to keep my eyes closed for a few more seconds.

Ginny has been in my bed before, but she’s always left it and returned to Hogwarts. Last night was different. Last night, in addition to everything else we did, we eventually slept together.

Listening carefully, I hear her breathing. The noise is quickening and arousing, she is beginning to pant. From the noises she is making I have no doubt that she is watching me with increasing frustration. A frustrated Ginny, I have already learned, can be a very good thing.

I smell that wonderful scent called Ginny; rose and jasmine combined with a sweet musk and soap. There is a hint of sweat too, both mine and hers.

But touch—touch is the best sense of all.

Her head rests on my left shoulder. I am aware of her hair, it is everywhere. My eyes are closed, but I can visualise it in my mind; it is a crimson cushion lying between my shoulder and her ear. A few stray strands are scattered across my chest. The most wayward of these tickle my neck as I inhale. I feel them moving to the steady rhythm of my breathing.

Her own increasingly rapid exhalations now waft warmly over my collarbone. An arm, her left, lies across my chest and her hand is wrapped around my ribs. Her fingers flex, gently caressing me, and making my torso tingle. Very soon, she will lose her patience, but I endeavour to prolong my pretence of sleep by concentrating on all of these wonderful sensations.

Her soft flesh is warm and it sticks to mine, breast sticks to chest. We are glued together by the sweat of intimacy, the perspiration of proximity.

Her right leg lies alongside my left. She moves her foot and begins to rub my calf with her toes. I will be unable to remain supine and silent for much longer.

Her left leg is curled over mine; our inner thighs are sticking together and her left knee rests on my right leg. She shifts slightly, bringing her heel backwards to rub my left calf from the other side, too.

The sensation of toes and heel caressing my calf would almost certainly have been enough. Under any circumstances it would be almost impossible for me to prolong my pretence while she caresses me. But her shuffling movement brings her hips closer to mine, too. And that slight movement brings a tangled triangle of red hair into contact with my hip. This gentle prickling sensation is too much. The feeling of this furry nest moving against my flesh finally ends my pretence. The one part of my anatomy which it is impossible for me to control twitches and moves involuntarily, brushing against her thigh as it betrays me.

‘I knew that you were awake,’ she tells me triumphantly. ‘Why pretend to be asleep?’

My lazy enjoyment of her presence is over. I move my left hand inwards from the edge of my bed … our bed … and I squeeze her backside. Until this moment I have been touching her without using my hands. Now I firmly cup her right buttock and squeeze. I place my right hand on her knee and slide it up her left thigh. Grasping the thigh, I gently pull, while pushing on her hip with the other hand. She helps, and she is suddenly straddling me. I squeeze her firm backside pull, lifting her slightly up the bed. She repositions herself, and I lower her down. She is above me, astride my abdomen, her pubic hair now tickles my belly, and I can feel her moistness on my abdomen. My stiffening cock brushes against her backside, I raise my eyelids. I am instantly lost in her bright brown eyes. She smiles down at me.

‘I was feeling you without moving,’ I tell her.

‘Hair on my shoulder…’ I shift my hands from her smooth haunches, lift my arms, and run my fingers through the crimson cascade above and around me.

‘Breath on my neck…’ I bring my hands around onto her face and run my thumbs over her smiling lips.

‘Something soft against my ribs…’ I move my hands down, slowly sliding my fingers over neck and collarbone until my fingers reach their next pendulous prizes. I caress them gently.

‘And something furry against my thigh.’ My right hand continues questing downwards towards the ultimate destination while my left thumb circles a stiffening papilla.

She lifts herself slightly to allow my probing fingers to gain access to that most intimate of areas. That’s when we hear a high pitched squeak and a muffled groan from the floor below. We exchange grins.

‘Sounds like Ron and Hermione are up,’ she says. She reaches for her wand while my fingers continue to caress and explore.

‘ _Muffliato_ … oh,’ she says as my probing fingers find her most sensitive spot. 

‘I think it must be time for breakfast,’ I tell her, keeping my face straight.

‘Are you hungry?’ she asks. She sounds surprised.

‘For you,’ I say. She smiles, moves up, and kisses my forehead, my scar, as I continue to caress her clitoris. She lifts her lips from my forehead and begins to move down the bed, but as I look into her face I have an overwhelming urge to delay the inevitable, to simply kiss her. I move my hands to her shoulders and pull her down. She does not resist. Our lips meet and part.

It is a lingering kiss, our tongues press and probe. Her lip are soft and warm on mine as I attempt to show how much I love her by simply prolonging the kiss for as long as possible. As we continue, breathing through our noses so as not to part, her hands move. They don’t travel down, as I’d expected, but instead move up into my hair. My hands follow suit, and I run them through her glowing titian locks.

Our lips still locked together, she moves. She was crouched above me, but now Ginny spreads her legs and lowers herself back down onto my chest. Her breasts are rubbing against my chest as she moves. Her pubes tickle my abdomen as she lies on top of me. I twitch my cock, and feel it brush against her thigh. No, not her thigh, I realise from the moan of pleasure she gives. I twitch again; she gasps and pushes herself up and away from me, smiling.

Ginny shuffles down the bed and gives me a grin which I recognise; it means “let’s try something new”. She lowers herself onto my cock, but doesn’t guide it inside her. I feel her wetness as she begins to move back and forwards rubbing herself on my erection. She slides along the shaft, her breaths becoming more rapid until she slips so far forwards that the tip of my cock presses against her clit. It feels good to me, but from her expression, and the moan she makes, I realise that, for her, it’s better than simply good. I rock my hips slightly, and watch her face. Her mouth forms an “O” of pleasure as she rocks with me.

She moves her hands from either side of my head and instead grabs my shoulders as we continue to grind together. Her breasts bounce and sway above me. Their movement is insistent they are demanding some attention. I move my hands up from her hips and stroke her freckled boobs. My thumbs caress her nipples as my fingers squeeze her breasts together. This slow and rhythmic dance continues until she licks her lips, and I know that she is close to her climax.

Suddenly, she lifts herself up. My cock follows her springing up, away from my belly. She grabs it, guides it into her, and she drops on to it. I am immediately deep inside her, and I’m aware that she’s never felt so wet before. She bounces, I thrust and we stare into each other’s eyes. Somehow, we can communicate without words. I slow down for her, and she grinds herself into me and tightens herself around my cock. As she reaches a crescendo and moans, I give one, two three final thrusts and we ascend the summit together with no more than a few nasal moans and grunts.

‘Wow,’ she gasps as we finish.

‘Wow,’ I agree. We can barely speak, so she simply lowers herself onto me; sweat soaked chest meets sweat soaked chest.

‘I love you, Ginny,’ I tell her.

‘I love you too, Harry,’ she tells me. ‘That was…’ she stops midsentence, waiting for me to speak.

‘Very enjoyable, and good exercise,’ I tell her. ‘Professional Quidditch players need to keep fit, they need _lots_ of exercise, and I’m always willing to help you keep fit.’

She laughs, and kisses the locket scar on my chest.

‘I intend to be a very fit Quidditch player,’ she says.

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, we are sharing a bathroom and I am still in ecstasy.

We are standing side by side as we clean our teeth. We have been intimate, or “celebrating” as Ginny still calls it, for a little over a week. I love her and she loves me and I still cannot believe my luck. I hope that I will never be able to believe my luck, that even mundane moments like this will always retain their most powerful magic.

I watch her in the mirror as she rinses and spits. It’s such an ordinary thing to do, but it’s an ordinary thing which I have never seen _her_ do. Is it wrong that I find it erotic? At the moment, I find almost everything she does erotic. She is watching me, just as I am watching her, so I try to keep my face blank.

I’ve seen Ron clean his teeth, Hermione too. It’s just something that people do. It isn’t _what_ she is doing, I realise, it is simply the fact that it is wonderful, beautiful Ginny doing it.

I remember those dark days just after the battle; I watched her make a pot of tea and that was wonderful, too. Are these feelings normal? Do I really understand what love is? Is this love? Or am I simply crazy? If I tell her will she laugh at me? Will she think that I’m stupid, or weird, or creepy?

This act, standing next to each other and sharing a sink as we clean our teeth, seems to be so ordinary to her. I suppose that growing up with six brothers and only two bathrooms made her used to the constant presence of males. Will I ever get used to her presence? Why hasn’t my years of proximity to Hermione made me used to girls?

It has! I’m simply not used to _this_ girl. I hope that I never get used to her.

I’m wearing a pair of old and worn pyjama trousers, and nothing else, because she is wearing my dressing gown. She has fastened the belt only loosely. As she leans forwards and places her toothbrush in the tumbler, the dressing gown gapes, and so do I. She laughs at my expression and tugs the dressing gown closed.

I turn, grab the lapels, and re-open it for another look.

‘Like them?’ she asks.

‘Love you,’ I tell her.

That’s obviously a good answer, because her eyes sparkle happily. She slips her hands over my shoulders and pulls me down for a kiss. I release her lapels and grab her bum instead. She stands on tiptoe and pulls herself right in to me, her bare breasts are pushed against my chest, her hands are in my hair, my hands are caressing her bum, and our tongues are performing another intricate, intimate, dance.

It is some time before we part, but when we do, although she smiles, she pulls my dressing gown closed with a definite finality. She’s right, we need to get dressed, tempting though it is, we can’t spend all day kissing, exploring each other’s flesh, and making love.

‘I’m going to get dressed, Harry. I’ll leave you to wash and shave in peace. What do you want for breakfast?’ she asks.

‘Just toast,’ I tell her.

‘It will be ready when you get downstairs,’ she promises.

I again look in the mirror and I watch the provocatively swaying hips of my girlfriend, my lover, as she slips out from the bathroom. I am still staring in wonder at the now closed bathroom door when I hear the door to the master bedroom click closed.

I am smiling blissfully as I shave. I hear Ginny leave my bedroom and clatter down the stairs. Then I hear voices. Ginny is talking quietly to Hermione on the landing below. The voices stop and I hear the door to the bathroom directly below this one open and close.

Suddenly, I am no longer smiling. Breakfast in the kitchen won’t be for two, it will be for four. Ron and Hermione know that Ginny spent the night with me, just as I know that Ron and Hermione spent the night together.

Everything has changed. My two best friends are… They have…

After years of each annoying the other, they finally got together during the battle, and now they have....

Some people didn’t think that it would last, but it has, and I think that it will.

I know that Ron won’t hurt Hermione. No, that’s not true, I know that he _will_ hurt her, and that she will hurt him too. But they won’t do it deliberately. Is that good enough? They seem to enjoy bickering with each other, they always have. Ginny says that they argue like an old married couple.

I remember what Arthur Weasley told me last year “Never sleep on an argument.” After Christmas, after Ginny and I had argued, he said something else: “Molly and I argue too, you know. Think of it this way. If two people can live together for any length of time without a serious dispute, it simply shows a lack of spirit only to be admired in sheep.”

I’ve hurt my friends before now, and they’ve hurt me I remind myself, and yet we’re still together. We’ve fought and argued and lied to each other. At times I’ve thought that our bond was irreparably broken, but we’ve always got back together. We’ve helped and supported and saved each other too.

I’ve watched Ron and Hermione dance around each other for years too. Why did I never think about what would happen when they finally got together? Merlin! What do we do now? We can’t pretend that nothing happened. Ron knows! How will he take it? What will he do? What if he tells Molly, or Arthur? Have I betrayed their trust?

Over the years, I’ve done a lot of a lot of stupid and dangerous things, often, because I had no other choice. I have done many things I regret. I even kept secrets from Ginny, though I did it for her own safety.

But I don’t regret this.

Arthur also made me promise to take things slow, I remember.

That was just after the battle, almost a year ago, I remind myself. This _is_ slow, isn’t it? I am trying to think of a defence to use in a conversation which I hope I never have. Molly … Merlin … Molly has never, ever shouted at me, but what will Ginny’s mum think of me now? They are _my_ family too. I have no one else, they are my _only_ family. Arthur Weasley tried to tell me that, after the battle.

Suddenly scared, I return to my bedroom, dress hastily, and dash along the landing. I stop at the top of the stairs, terrified.

Hermione is in the bathroom, what will I do if she comes out? What will I say to her? What will she be wearing?

I remind myself that I’ve seen Hermione in a range of dressing gowns and pyjamas for years, right back to the pink dressing gown she had in our first year. Why, suddenly, is it different?

Ron is still in his bedroom. What if _he_ comes out? I know how he is about Ginny. He can be overprotective and unreasonable, and Ginny can control him much more easily than I can. I need to get to the kitchen quickly. My heart thunders like the Hogwarts Express at full steam as I scamper quietly down the stairs, dash past both the bathroom and Ron’s bedroom, and then clatter quickly down two more flights to the Hall.

I almost make it to safety, but I hear the bathroom door open seconds before I reach the sanctuary of the kitchen.

‘Good morning, Harry,’ Hermione calls down from the second floor landing. Her voice is happy and contented. She almost seems to purr. I’m embarrassed because I suspect that I know why.

‘Morning,’ I reply. But I don’t turn and look up at her. I simply pull open the kitchen door and descend the stone stairs.

How many times have I said “Good morning” to Hermione? I cannot even look at her this morning, because she knows! And I know about her, too.

‘What’s the matter, Harry?’ Ginny asks me as I descend the stairs to the basement kitchen of Grimmauld Place.

‘Nothing,’ I say, because I do not want to admit my worries, not even to Ginny.

‘Are you sure? You look worried. Has something happened?’ she asks.

‘A lot of things have happened, Ginny,’ I admit, glancing backwards, towards the stairs. ‘What do we do now?’ I ask her. ‘What happens next?’

‘Oh!’ she understands immediately. That’s another wonderful thing about Ginny.

She kisses my cheek, but resists when I seek out her lips in response. Her stance reminds me that we need to talk.

‘I have no idea, Harry. Ron knows where I spent last night, but I know what he was doing, too. And Ron would never betray you, you know that,’ she speaks with a reassuring certainty.

She’s right, of course, he wouldn’t, not deliberately. I trust Ron. But this isn’t Voldemort, this is Mrs Weasley! She can find out anything! And then we’ll be in _real_ trouble.

‘But what if … what if your _mum_ finds out?’ I ask.

‘I will tell her that I’m seventeen and an adult and there’s nothing she can do about it except scold us. I’ll remind her that she and Dad had some “interesting times” when they were at Hogwarts. And if you can manage to reproduce the look that you have on your face right now, she’ll forgive you instantly.’ Ginny looks into my eyes and smiles.

‘What look?’ I ask.

‘Oh, Harry!’ She stands on tiptoe and softly kisses my cheek for a second time. ‘You look so worried. The idea that you might have done something which Mum will disapprove of really worries you, and it’s obvious on your face. Mum would immediately exonerate you if she saw that look. She’d blame me, instead.’

‘You?’ I ask.

‘Yes, it would be me who “led you astray”. But that doesn’t matter. It takes two, you know,’ she tells me.

She steps right up to me pushing her chest into mine and sliding her arms around me. She looks up at me and her face creases into a happy and contented smile.

‘I was a willing partner, or didn’t you notice?’ she asks.

I grin as she teases me. She’s right, it takes two.

‘I do seem to remember you saying “Oh, Merlin, yes,” on a few occasions last night,’ I tell her.

She slaps my shoulder softly and smiles.

‘And that’s what I’ll say if it comes to an argument. But it won’t, because Mum and Dad aren’t going to find out,’ she says with certainty. I gaze into her clear brown eyes and I believe her. I realise that, with Ginny beside me, I can do anything.

‘I love you…’ I begin. I get no further because Ginny slides her arms around my waist, pulls me close and kisses me. I cannot resist. I slide my hands under her t-shirt.

‘I’m not interrupting anything, am I?’ Hermione asks from the top of the stairs. She’s wearing an old pair of jeans and a sweater.

‘Yes,’ Ginny says. ‘But we can wait.’

I blush and Hermione giggles. I don’t think I’ve ever heard her giggle before, certainly not like that.

‘Did you have a nice time with Ron, yesterday?’ Ginny asks.

‘I… We… What?’ splutters Hermione, her embarrassment signalled by her blushing cheeks.

‘I was asking about your day out,’ says Ginny, laughing. ‘I do not want to know any details about what you were doing in my brother’s bedroom.’

‘Oh,’ Hermione blushes even more, but proceeds to happily tell us about their day.

‘So, after we’d danced in the rain, we came back here to get warm and dry, which we did,’ Hermione concludes, smiling happily. ‘Ron’s fallen asleep again. I didn’t see any reason to wake him.’

‘He took you to the Merlin’s Circle restaurant?’ Ginny asks. ‘Dressed like that? And they let you in?’

‘Yes.’ Hermione laughs. ‘You should have seen the head waiter’s face when we walked in. It was like thunder, he was outraged! I was certain that he was going to throw us out, but Ron told him who we were, and said that he’d been working undercover. When the waiter recognised us he went from looking down on us to sucking up to us in an instant.’

Ginny and I join in the laughter.

‘What’re you lot laughing about?’ Ron asks.

‘Hermione was telling us about last night, Ron,’ Ginny tells him.

Ron’s mouth opens and closes, but no words come out. He blushes crimson and we laugh even more, until Hermione takes pity on him.

‘I was telling them about the restaurant, Ron, about the waiter,’ Hermione explains.

‘Gits,’ Ron says.

Ginny shrugs. ‘Would you rather talk about what we were all doing when we got back here, Ron?’ she snaps sarcastically.

Ron looks horrified and shakes his head.

‘Good,’ Ginny tells him. She takes my hand, and takes charge. ‘Harry and I are together. You and Hermione are together. We’ve been friends for years. We’ve been couples for … we’ve been couples for a lot longer than we’ve _actually_ been couples for … it’s been years, really!’

Ron and Hermione look at each other and nod. We all know what Ginny is trying to say. In retrospect, we realise that it’s been inevitable that this morning would arrive.

‘This shouldn’t change anything, in fact, it should make things easier,’ Ginny continues. ‘We can cover for each other. Where were you supposed to be last night Hermione?’

‘At the Burrow, with you,’ Hermione says.

‘And I stayed over at your place, Hermione, because we were swotting all night,’ Ginny announces. ‘Your mum and mine don’t really know each other. So that will work, as long as we all remember where we were, okay?’

Ron looks rather bewildered.

‘You weren’t actually thinking of telling Mum, were you, Ron?’ Ginny asks.

‘No, but…’ he begins. 

‘No buts!’ Ginny announces. ‘We need to get our stories straight, Ron. What’s happened has happened, and I’ve got no problems about you and Hermione, neither does Harry.’ Her thumb applies gentle pressure to the knuckle of my forefinger as she speaks. That means “back me up,” so I do.

‘’No, no problems,’ I agree. ‘No problems at all.’

‘And I’ve got no problems about Harry and Ginny, Ron,’ says Hermione, she sounds almost threatening.

‘Okay, okay,’ Ron holds up his hands in surrender. ‘I’m not a complete hypocrite, you know, Hermione. It’s just … Mum!’

I’m surprised how quickly we’ve reached an understanding, but we lapse into an uneasy silence. We are all simply processing what has happened. While Ron stands in mute thoughtfulness, he is blushing to the tips of his ears, and I’m worried that his blush is contagious. Fortunately, Ginny breaks the silence.

‘Have you spoken to your parents about the holiday, Hermione?’ she asks.

‘Yes, they are quite happy to extend the booking for two more weeks for us,’ says Hermione.

Ron looks at me, puzzled, but I have no idea what they are talking about either, and that must be obvious.

‘Haven’t you told Harry, Ginny?’ Hermione asks.

‘I was just about to when you arrived,’ says Ginny. She looks up into my eyes. ‘Hermione’s parents have a friend with a villa in Rhodes. They were going to book it for two weeks in mid-July just after school ends and Hermione was going with them,’ she tells me.

‘I _am_ going with them, but I’ve persuaded them to book it for the following two weeks, too,’ Hermione says. ‘That is the last week in July and the first week in August. We can go for a holiday together, just like last year.’

‘Not quite like last year,’ interrupts Ginny. ‘Mr and Mrs Granger, and Hermione, are going for the first two weeks, and we’re going out to join Hermione when the Granger’s come back. You’ll have to pay for me, Harry, but I _will_ pay you back when I get a job.’

‘Okay.’ I nod. I would offer to pay for Ginny outright, but I know that there is no point in arguing about money with her.

‘Are your parents going to be okay with that, Hermione?’ Ron asks worriedly.

Hermione nods. ‘Yes. After all, I’ve spent a lot of time with you over the years. When I suggested it, Dad asked “do I want do know what the sleeping arrangements are?” and Mum told him to be quiet. Apparently, Dad went on holiday to Spain with his first girlfriend when he was nineteen and she was seventeen. He looked a bit embarrassed when Mum reminded him.’

‘Really?’ Ron sounds astonished. Hermione nods.

‘Mum was talking to one of the neighbours the other week, her daughter is a year younger than me and is going to America for three weeks with her boyfriend. It isn’t a big deal for most Muggles, honestly, Ron,’ says Hermione.

‘I don’t think that there is any chance that Mum and Dad will be so relaxed,’ observes Ginny. ‘Is there Ron?’

‘Definitely not,’ he says.

‘So the solution is simple, Ron,’ Ginny announces. ‘We won’t tell them! After breakfast, we’ll go to the Burrow and see Mum and Dad. We’ll say that Hermione’s parents have booked the villa, which is true, and that we’re going out to join them after two weeks, which is, sort of true. We just don’t mention that Hermione’s parents won’t be with us. Now, Ron, you need to know how to lie to Mum. We can safely ignore Dad; he never has any idea about what’s going on.’

Over breakfast we make our plans.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't often write porn, and I certainly don't write porn without plot. It's possible that the plot of this story is wafer thin, but it's there, and I hope that it is about more than sex.


End file.
